


put your arms around me (i'm home)

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: Geralt remembers telling Jaskier, once upon a time, that witchers retire only when they slow and get killed. When their senses are no longer sharp, their reflexes no longer quick as lightning, and whatever beast they're up against takes a swipe that their flagging strength can't block.Now, eight hundred years later and still alive and kicking where he should be dead and six feet under several times over, Geralt thinks Destiny took that as a challenge just to fuck with him. It wouldn't be the first time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 502





	put your arms around me (i'm home)

**Author's Note:**

> i had like 2 ideas for reincarnation aus i wanted to do and this is the one that made it into a doc first so here it is. i will most likely be back with the other idea i had - where they're both reincarnated instead of just one of them - sometime soon

Geralt remembers telling Jaskier, once upon a time, that witchers retire only when they slow and get killed. When their senses are no longer sharp, their reflexes no longer quick as lightning, and whatever beast they're up against takes a swipe that their flagging strength can't block. 

Looking down at his phone, scrolling through a social media site he never in his wildest dreams imagined existing, let alone himself using, Geralt thinks Destiny took that as a challenge just to fuck with him. It wouldn't be the first time. 

Now, over eight hundred years since those days, retirement for a witcher looks a lot like the days between jobs from an era ago, the ones where it was just him and Roach on dirt roads, one town miles behind him and the next still miles ahead. Just surviving, just being. 

He hasn't slowed, not really, but the need for witchers has died out, the monsters retreating in the face of the emergence of technology and science and humanity's collective choice to leave magic and fate and Destiny behind in the pursuit of power of a different kind, a different nature. Still no less destructive—chaos is chaos, whatever its form—but nothing a silver sword and a burst of Aard can fix now. 

He'd expected to be dead by now. That he would've been bested by the beasts he hunted and finally able to rest _._ But he kept going, kept pushing on because that's what he's always done, and he keeps doing it now. 

His life has been long, and Geralt is tired. 

He's also lonely, but that's nothing new. 

He pockets his phone and keeps walking. Thinking about Jaskier, no matter how briefly or vaguely, makes his heart ache, even so many centuries later. He'd never apologized after that day on the mountain, when he'd taken his hurt and his anger out on the one person who'd always stayed by his side, and it's been his biggest, longest regret since. 

He'd told Ciri, once, decades after they'd found each other, that if there was one thing he could have in life, it'd be the chance to say he was sorry. To tell Jaskier he'd always been his friend, and that it meant more to him than he knew at the time that Jaskier always, _always_ had his back and was always on his side. To maybe, even, ask for his forgiveness. 

He'd never gotten the chance. Nilfgaard was a force to be reckoned with, and they'd swept over the Continent with brute force and no mercy. Geralt had taken Ciri to Kaer Morhen, he'd found Yennefer again because Ciri needed her, and he'd never seen Jaskier again. 

As far as he knew, there hadn't even been a grave. 

Geralt shakes the thoughts away as he pulls the door to the bar open. The ache in his heart persists, but he's used to it. He doesn't ignore it—he's done enough of ignoring his emotions and now tries to let them run their course—Ciri always says it's healthier that way, anyway—but he doesn't let it consume him, either, the way it had when he'd first realized just what Jaskier had meant to him, what he felt for him. 

The bar is air conditioned and the coolness is a welcome reprieve from the heat of the summer outside. Geralt heads to the counter and orders whatever's on tap and then takes his drink to a corner booth in the back, tucking himself into it for an evening of relaxing. He could relax at home, sure, but it's too quiet these days—Ciri doesn't visit as often anymore, and Yen's overseas doing whatever the hell she feels like. It leaves Geralt with a lot of alone time with his thoughts. 

Thoughts that, more and more, keep going back to a certain blue-eyed bard he'd known a lifetime ago. 

He's nursing his second beer, eyes unfocused on the table before him, heart aching, when the sound of approaching footsteps, quick and light and _familiar,_ pulls him from his daze, and Geralt inhales sharply, and the scent of musk and chamomile hits him like a slap to the face through the muddle of booze and sweat in the air. 

He looks up and meets bright, crystal blue eyes, and suddenly Geralt can't breathe. 

"I love the way you just—sit in the corner and brood," Jaskier says, a smile playing on his pink lips, and Geralt can only stare, his slow-beating heart nearly racing now in his chest. 

He doesn't— _can't_ —answer— _he's here he's here is it really him—_ and Jaskier tips his head to the side, still smiling, but now looking amused. "Are you here alone?" 

Somehow, miraculously, Geralt manages to nod, still staring at the man before him, because this can't be real. He's hallucinating, or maybe he's fallen asleep, but this isn't real, it's not possible— 

Jaskier slides into the seat across from him, smooth as he had that very first time in Posada over eight _hundred_ years ago, in another life, another world entirely. He's got a beer in his own hands, ringed fingers playing at the lip of the bottle, and Geralt _stares._

"I came over because you caught my eye, sitting by your lonesome in a dark corner," Jaskier says, eyes still bright even in the dim light of the bar, "but now—I can't seem to shake the feeling that I know you." 

Geralt inhales again, that musk and chamomile scent filling his lungs, and he curls his fingers on his thighs to keep from reaching across the table to touch Jaskier—and gods, he might not even _be_ Jaskier, might just look like him, and that thought twists unpleasantly in his chest. "Hm." 

Jaskier studies him, tongue peeking out from between those pink lips as his brow furrows, and Geralt wants to kiss him, wants to taste him and hold him and never let him go again. "Do I? Know you? You just—you seem _so_ familiar, but I can't seem to recall..." 

His blue, blue eyes sweep down over Geralt, and they catch at his chest—at the medallion still hanging around his neck, because Geralt will always be a witcher, even if the world doesn't need him anymore. A weird mix of expressions pass Jaskier's face, and he frowns, and then his blue eyes widen and he looks Geralt in the eye again. 

" _Geralt,_ " he breathes, and he reaches out a hand, like he means to touch, like he _needs_ to, and Geralt raises his own hand to meet him halfway. 

"Jaskier." 

Their fingers lace together, settling a restless itch in Geralt's chest, and then Jaskier is moving again, sliding from his side of the booth and around to Geralt's. He presses in close and Geralt welcomes it, buries his face in Jaskier's neck as Jaskier does the same. He trembles against Geralt, overwhelmed with emotion, and Geralt just inhales his scent to calm the buzzing in his own head because _Jaskier is here Jaskier is alive Jaskier is here now._

Words never said bubble up now, and Geralt finds himself unable—and unwilling—to keep holding onto them any longer. Eight hundred years has been long enough. 

"I'm sorry," he says, rough with guilt that's lingered and festered for too long. "I'm so sorry, Jas, I didn't mean it. You were always my friend. Never a curse. Never a burden. I'm sorry I ever made you feel like that." 

"I forgive you," Jaskier says, breathes it into his neck. His voice is wet and Geralt feels hot tears on his skin. "I forgave you the moment I made it to the bottom of that mountain—I loved you too much to not." 

It pulls a wretched sound out of him, and Geralt just holds Jaskier closer, crushing him against his chest as if he were to let go again Jaskier would disappear on the wind, and Geralt refuses to lose him again—not now, not ever. Tears sting in his own eyes, and Geralt squeezes them shut as he breathes in, measured and deep, against Jaskier's neck. 

They stay like that for a long, endless moment, unwilling to part. Jaskier's fingers eventually begin playing with his hair, carding through it in soothing, rhythmic gestures, and Geralt feels himself relax under the ministrations, relief suffusing through his limbs. It's a terribly intimate moment, and Geralt is only pulled out of it when the soft music playing in the background changes to something a little more upbeat, the first note loud and startling him out of his reverie. 

He pulls back only enough to be able to look into Jaskier's blue eyes. Jaskier smiles at him, cheeks stained with tear tracks, and Geralt, following impulse, leans forward to press a gentle, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

"Love you, Jas," he says, because he feels it needs to be said. Whatever else, Jaskier _needs_ to know this. "Sorry it took me so long to figure out." 

It just makes Jaskier laugh, gloriously light and bright. _Happy._ Geralt's never heard something so good before. He wants to hear it for the rest of his long, long life. 

"Oh, dear heart," Jaskier says, soft and sweet, "I love you too. Always have, always will." 

They still have a bit of work to do, Geralt knows. Eight hundred years of guilt and regret is still there to unpack, and Jaskier has his own heartbreak to let heal, even if he's forgiven Geralt already, even if it's from a lifetime ago, but they'll do it _together._

For now, Geralt returns Jaskier's smile with a small, fond one of his own, and leans in again to taste that sweet mouth for himself. 

Jaskier kisses him back, and Geralt feels the ache of loneliness begin to fade. 

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) // [tumblr](http://geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek.tumblr.com)


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